


The Thing About Accomplishing Temptations Is...

by headraline



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "missing" scenes, 5 + 1 times, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Dirty Thoughts, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Lots Of Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, Sort Of, aziraphale is thirstier than he admits to, but rated M just in case, but these two dorks just can't help the pining and the suffering, crowley is better at tempting than he thinks he is, humor and angst, ineffable idiots through history, it snowballs from there, it started as just humor honestly, not much to be Mature about, yep that's a tag now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headraline/pseuds/headraline
Summary: Over the course of the years (or millennia, really) there are certain assumptions that sentient creatures will make about each other.For example, one could assume that an angel will be, well, angelic –full of an all-encompassing love for God and all of Her creations– and that a demon will be… that’s right, demonic, with all the whistles and bells that entails –mischief, mayhem, temptations and the like.Still, even though the expression would not come into use for a long time yet, there is something to be said for when people –earthly, ethereal or occult they be– assume…This was one such occasion.Or several of them.See also: Five Times Crowley Accidentally Seduces People Around Him and The One Time It's Not Him





	1. 41 A.D.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RebelMage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelMage/gifts).

> So, this is entirely Not My Fault and I am blaming the person who got me to watch Good Omens on a dare.  
You know who you are and this is your very belated birthday present.
> 
> But, I have been still battling with my mild writer's block so this is, by my standards, complete garbage, not to mention nonsense.  
I'm also trying my hand at writing in past tense, so we'll see how that turns out.
> 
> Either way.  
Hi, Good Omens fandom.  
First-fic here, blah blah, blah, trying my hands at a few well-worn tropes and putting a little bit of my own in it.  
Major thanks to the one post of tumblr who I very much agreed with about how intentional the wrongness of Crowley's clothes in the Roman Era might have been, since Aziraphale was right there looking perfectly historically adequate; it basically sent this whole thing snowballing, along with a few of my own headcanons.

Crawly was not a particularly powerful or high-ranking demon.

He wasn’t even in the top-10, not that those had been created yet.

What set him aside from other demons was his mind, the way it worked, and his penchant to always go beyond what was just before his eyes— that’s what made him the perfect choice to basically invent Sin in and of itself, to become the ‘Original Tempter’ and personification of all that is ‘shouldn’t but want to’.

Well, that and possibly the fact that, contrary to most other demons, he didn’t have any blatantly repulsive marks that made him identifiable as such.

He actually looked rather fetching if someone asked a certain Principality –the perfect creature to carry out the very essence of Temptation on Earth.

Aziraphale knew this already, he had known as they shared their first conversation on the walls of the Garden, and later on as they witnessed the start of the Flood and their most recent, harrowing meeting at the Crucifixion –the demon, now Crowley, was wearing feminine garbs at the time, and out of the corner of his eyes the angel had seen more than one gaze turned from the brutal display of cruelty and towards the slender frame and long, copper curls.

They met again in Rome eight years later, and it was somehow the first thing Aziraphale noticed, after he heard a distinctly familiar voice order _‘a jug of whatever’s drinkable’ _and instantly knew.

“Crawly—Crowley?” he called out, sliding into the seat next to the demon without waiting for an invitation, “Fancy running into you, here…”

Crowley was looking definitely more masculine than the last time Aziraphale saw him, fiery curls cropped short –a crime against nature, in the angel’s modest opinion– and kept in place by a silver laurel circlet, of all the blessed things.

_Really, Crowley?_

Up until that moment, the demon’s looks and what they could be used for had just been a distant sort of awareness in the angel’s mind, something that had really nothing to do with him.

The startling realization that not even the less flattering cut and obnoxious piece of jewellery could make Crowley any less attractive threw Aziraphale for a loop; then he thought about smiting himself the moment the words “still a demon?” left his mouth, because of course Crowley would still be a demon, his response was, all in all, predictable and not completely unwarranted.

To put it simply, the angel had just blurted out the first thing to come to his mind that wasn’t about Crowley’s hair or the state of his toga, haphazardly thrown around his body, folded in the wrong direction and— what even was that third layer around his shoulders? All in all, it looked like Crowley had either no idea how the people in Rome actually garbed themselves, or had to dress –or _re_dress– rather quickly.

Both very likely scenarios to be behind the phrase “Just nipped in for a quick temptation”.

And if Aziraphale was stomping out inappropriate curiosities suddenly popping up in the back of his mind like little bonfires and channelling all those thoughts into an offer for lunch, well. Nobody had to know. Especially not Crowley.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

Really, now? A demon who has never tried one of the first foods to be considered an aphrodisiac?

“Oh. Oh, let me tempt you to—” poor choice of words, Aziraphale. At least it seemed to instantly better Crowley’s mood: the sour irritation he was exuding with every word left, in favour of a confused yet amused glance at the angel, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the little smile. “No. No, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

They did end up going for oysters together. Crowley kept sticking out like a sore thumb, but not being alone did wonders to mitigate the blatant ‘outsider’ vibes he gave off… somewhat.

His fiery red hair and outrageous attire turned a lot of heads, and once the initial surprise wore off and the attention of the onlookers could dismiss the utterly ridiculous way Crowley was garbed, it still lingered on the body underneath the insult to custom that was the silver laurel and black toga folded the wrong way around.

“You know, people are still looking at you.”

The demon, in all honesty, only looked mildly disgruntled as he gestured to Aziraphale to help himself as he pleased to the rest of the oysters, having barely touched any at all.

“Yes, well.” He shrugged, “Let them. Or, if it bothers you so much, _you_ peel this blasted _mille passus_1 of fabric off me and put it back the way it’s _supposed_ to go.”

Aziraphale did his absolute best not to choke on the oyster he had been bringing to his mouth just as Crowley spoke. There went a mental image for the rest of the day. They hadn’t gone completely unheard either, and more than a few of the restaurant’s patrons looked like they would be all too happy to take on such a task –mostly men on the older side.

“I— I don’t think that would be a good idea…” he muttered, even though he could hear all too well the sarcasm dripping from the demon’s lips: Crowley was clearly still irritated with whatever had happened to him –possibly a long, tedious journey, a temptation to be carried out before he could even begin to figure out local customs; and on top of that the awareness of having done a shit job at blending in and the nagging sensation of being singled out and stared at, at every corner.

Thing that, in turn, made the hungry stares of those who didn’t mind his appearance _at all_ fly unnoticed along everything else that Crowley was trying his, well, _damnedest_ to ignore.

If Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he would have said it was a _miracle_ that they got out of the establishment without someone propositioning the demon in some way –but he did know better, and between him asking in hushed tones if Crowley had a place to stay and Crowley wasting no time at all in agreeing to follow Aziraphale out for the time being, it was very likely that the people all around them simply thought that the beautiful one dressed in eccentric clothes and outrageous jewellery was _already spoken for_.

It shouldn’t have made the angel so privately giddy, but it did— even when he and Crowley eventually exchanged goodbyes without a single one of Aziraphale’s questions making it past his mouth. Questions were normally the demon’s prerogative, always asking why this and why that, but one question Aziraphale often asked himself was_ ‘why not?’_ whenever he was inclined to experience and appreciate the marvels of human creation.

Since such a question often had no answer, the angel never felt the need to deny himself all the small, perfectly innocent pleasures that came from the wonders of human invention and creativity.

The so-called pleasures of the flesh, though, were a different matter –teetering too close to Lust, and way too messy to possibly be worth it, tangling with creatures of a lifespan so much shorter than his own … and yet, the angel would sometimes wonder.

What was it like, to lose oneself to the arms of another? Was it really worth the huge deal humans seemed to make out of it? Was the taste of another’s flesh really so much better than the finest foods and drink? Who was Crowley in Rome to tempt? Had it really been something as scandalous as what was inadvertently conjured by Aziraphale’s mind, in a decidedly less than angelic way?

Aziraphale wondered, but didn’t dare ask. He didn’t, because the next question after those was something dangerously close to _‘what would Crowley taste like, then?’_ and that was just not something he needed to know, _ever_. End of discussion.

1A _mille passus_ was 1.48km in Ancient Roman times, roughly just under 1 mile. Togas were not _actually_ a mile long, when unravelled, but Crowley always had a flair for dramatics.


	2. 1601, Globe Theatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not be having way too much fun with this.  
Look forward to being able to post the Bastille chapter -the further we go, the thirstier they both get. XD
> 
> (the first parts are mostly from Aziraphale's POV so we don't see inside Crowley's mind much, but it's a safe bet to just assume he's pining twice as bad and we all know it).

The second time that particular train of thought brought itself to the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind, it was many, many centuries later –it definitely wasn’t just the second time he noticed, or even thought about it, but it was the second time the angel could plainly see it unfold before his very eyes.

Centuries had come and gone, some less pleasant than others, and Aziraphale found himself enjoying humanity and all its creations more than ever. He became a particularly passionate patron of the arts, hence why he would often combine the business with the pleasurable and set up his meetings with his demonic acquaintance in theatres and the like.

Not to mention the added advantage of getting lost in a crowd –well, when there actually were crowds to speak of– to protect the secrecy of their little pact.

Funnily enough, despite a very obvious set of… assets, so to speak, very few of Crowley’s temptations had ever been Lust-driven, and even less of them had actually been so hands-on that the demon had to personally involve himself with any humans.

Aziraphale would know, the Arrangement meant he sometimes carried out a few of the other’s temptations himself, and they were always the kind of work that could be carried out at a distance, barely seen or heard at all.

Said Arrangement he and Crowley had worked out brought them somewhat closer, which was how he found himself at the Globe theatre, waiting for Crowley to show up and indulging in some grapes as he watched the young man struggle through his performance, all the while sending the human the most encouraging vibes he was capable of.

Then Crowley sauntered to his side and... well. The beard was terrible. A small mercy, since it at least served to distract from the long, lithe legs of which the tights left _nothing_ to the imagination; and not for the first time Aziraphale had to wonder about this sort of... pull, if it was a general demon thing or something unique to Crowley.

Aziraphale had, after all, been on Earth for a long time and socialised with all kinds of more canonically attractive humans –Heaven knew the Greek had had no qualms walking about and engaging in sports in various states of undress... yet none of them emanated the same subtle allure that seemed to never leave Crowley.

Through all their back and forth bickering, even with the stupid beard that was doing his face _no_ favours, Aziraphale could feel it, barely skin deep, but _there_.

And it affected others around them, too.

“And what does your friend think?” the actor spoke to Aziraphale, but his hopeful and charming smile was clearly directed at the man in the dark glasses.

At that point, the fear of getting discovered in the company of a demon overtook Aziraphale, who promptly lost any capability of being subtle or even following the conversation:

“Oh he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before, we don’t know each other.”

At his side, Crowley grinned in a way that was ever so slightly too toothy to be fully human.

“I think you should _get on with the play_.” He enunciated the last few words slowly, as if talking to a particularly slow child or pet.

Young ‘Master Burbage’ did not take offense to that, and soon enough they were listening to the scene again, from the top.

"He's very good, isn't he?" Aziraphale had asked the demon, both in an attempt to reassure the young performer on stage and to carry out something resembling a casual conversation; and even though Crowley's reply was laced with sarcasm it had much more than the desired effect:

"Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety."

'Hamlet' nearly broke character to get the blush under control, while Shakespeare himself appeared to be almost taking notes.2

The angel pointedly kept his eyes on the stage.

“What do you want?”

“Why ever would you infer that I might possibly want something?”

Just like that, their comfortable, familiar back and forth was resumed. Aziraphale never said it in so many words, but he was grateful for Crowley’s existence: life on Earth as the only ethereal being constantly there, immortal and unending among things so ephemeral and finite, could get quite lonely, so even an Adversary, a force foreign and opposite to everything he stood for, was refreshing. Welcome, even.

He listened to the demon complain about horses and point out what a waste it would be for the both of them to go all the way to Scotland, and pretended to offer token resistance:

“You cannot actually be suggesting… what I infer you’re implying…”

Crowley actually made him say it.

“Which is?”

“That… just one of us goes to Edinburgh. Does both… the blessing and the tempting?”

Just as the angel expected, the answer to that was a shrug and a shuffling that brought the demon closer to his ear:

“We’ve done it before. Dozens of times, now… the Arrangement...” the last word came out with a sing-song quality and Aziraphale hurried to shush him as if the Powers that be were listening in.

“Don’t say that!”

Crowley was not one easily deterred.

“Our respective head offices don’t actually care how things get done, they just want to know they can cross it off the list!”

Judging by the centuries that had passed without Gabriel, Michael or anyone else mentioning anything to Aziraphale, the demon was likely right, but while the angel had a nasty Fall as the worst punishment that could be doled out to him, Crowley was facing a much darker reality:

“But if Hell finds out they won’t just be angry… they would destroy you!” and, after millennia spent running into each other, Aziraphale was unsure of what he’d do with himself in a world without Crowley.

Bright yellow snake eyes gleamed furtively behind tinted lens, almost as if the demon was touched by his worry.

“Nobody ever has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh.”

And as per their Arrangement the coin was tossed. Aziraphale lost, but Crowley more than made up for it with a sigh and a reluctant parting gift:

_“It’ll take a miracle to get anyone to see Hamlet!”_

All it took was one well-placed _look_.

"Yes, alright, I'll do that one, my treat."

Come to think of it, the angel might have been the inventor of ‘puppy eyes’. Whether that was knowingly or not, no one could ever hope to tell.

“Oh, really?”

“Still prefer the funny ones.”

Crowley left the angel to his pleased little smile and meandered off, without sparing a single glance to any of the humans following his retreating back with varying degrees of hunger in their eyes.

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley just purposefully ignored the phenomenon, or if it was such a natural, passive quality in a demon that he barely even noticed the impact his mere presence had on all manner of creatures that laid eyes upon him.

2The appearance of practically the same line in Antony and Cleopatra, later on, never failed to crack Aziraphale up a bit. Crowley was less than impressed, but he did secretly find it funny as well.


	3. 1793, Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way, way too much fun with this.  
Also very much playing it by ear, what with the short, rapid-fire chapters, so.  
I am being deceptively calm for how insecure about this I actually feel.
> 
> Cheers!

For the most part, Aziraphale was immune to demonic wiles himself –if he found himself thinking more about Crowley and what use he made of his supposed ‘charms’, it was merely a matter of speculating over his _hereditary enemy_’s abilities and how to best counteract them, nothing more.

The angel wasn’t the least bit curious about _how_ exactly Crowley would infiltrate the wants and desires lurking deep beneath one’s skin, how a sideways glance or a toss of the hair would tempt his target to inch closer, to decide that it would not be so bad to taste a whole different type of forbidden fruit that would be dangled right in front of their starved mouth, teasing and ripe for the picking— no sir, Aziraphale was _not_ curious about any of it and definitely not intrigued about how it would feel, to reach out and touch, appreciate the one kind of Earthly delight that he had yet to get a sampling of.

It certainly wasn’t a curiosity that extended to any ordinary demon, at the very least –it was very much a peculiarity of Crowley and only him.

He was well on his way to actually believing that curiosity was all there was to it, on the day he got himself locked up in the Bastille.

In all honesty, the executioner was more obnoxious than he was scary, and his only worry about getting discorporated in such a way was that it would be for trivial reasons and the paperwork would really be, as he said, a _"complete nightmare!"_

And he couldn't, in good conscience, wilfully harm humans just to get himself out of a relatively minor inconvenience.

"Animals!" Still, he didn't have to like it, either.

But that's when he felt it, before he even heard the voice.

"Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel, only humans do that."

"Crowley!" It rushed out of his mouth in a single breath; and he turned around to see that the force behind the executioner's sudden silence and momentary paralysis was indeed his demon acquaintance.

Sitting up against the prison bars and with one hand dangling over a propped up knee, Crowley was wrapped in dark layers and earthly tones, much less elaborate than Aziraphale's own but giving the demon a rakish appeal that made the angel's eyes linger, head to toe and back up again.

"Oh... good Lord." He pointedly looked away but his traitorous eyes went back for a second helping of that vision before he could fully get them under control.

Aziraphale had noticed, back at the Globe theatre and before that even, over the years and decades, that whatever underlying… _something_ that made their Arrangement work, it went deeper than simple ‘staying out of each other’s way’, ‘lending a hand when needed’ or even mere companionship. He just was much too scared to examine it too closely and Crowley seemed perfectly fine with turning a blind eye to it as well.

Blessedly, however ironic that sounded, Crowley either didn't notice his staring or actually ignored it.

"What the deuce are you doing, locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop!"

"Well, I was... I got peckish."

And there it was –the familiar banter that always served to ground Aziraphale back into himself. He really was grateful to Crowley, not just for the timely rescue but for the companionship as well. One lifetime on Earth as an angel could get lonely, nevermind several of them over... having someone who understood how that felt, even the enemy, made the prospect of eternity more bearable.

Eventually, Aziraphale had to agree that walking around Paris wearing aristocratic clothing was not the best idea, and Crowley let the human have his awareness again, _after_ shielding himself and the angel from prying mortal eyes within the cell.

"So, what's for lunch?" The demon asked as the Frenchmen dragged their compatriot out to face the very blade he so enjoyed inflicting upon others.

Aziraphale tried not to feel too guilty about the death of a murderer.

"What do you say to some crepes?"

Crowley didn't eat often, if at all, but every now and then Aziraphale did manage to convince him to try out something new.

The angel felt more than a little ridiculous wearing the colours of the revolution, but nobody seemed to pay him any mind one way or the other— not when Crowley, sitting just in front of him, was tentatively bringing the fork to his mouth with the same wary curiosity that accompanied his first sampling of oysters. Soft lips curled around the morsel of crêpe and Aziraphale was elated to see a much better reaction to this treat than Crowley had had about the oysters –_'eugh, slimy little buggers'_, he had said back then.

Elation quickly turned into something darker and stickier, when Crowley's quiet hum of surprise morphed into a low, barely audible sound of pleasure and his tongue briefly poked out to lick at his lower lip to chase the taste, eyes dropping closed for a second behind his glasses.

Aziraphale dug into his own meal with renewed gusto just to avoid staring –he was indeed _mostly_ immune to the actual pull of a demon’s temptation, thanks to his angelic nature, but even for him there were _limits_. Luckily, he didn't have to suffer through the positively sinful display for long: after satisfying his curiosity and his appetite, the demon promptly felt done with the entire thing and none too subtly pushed his plate towards Aziraphale, offering it in secret trade for the angel's now empty one.

It was all actually rather nice, sitting and talking like they had all the time in the world to, no bosses to report to and no 'sides' pulling them apart... it would be quite a long time before two of those three things actually became true, but they didn't know it yet; and time was no concern of theirs at the moment.

Crowley then flagged a waitress for more wine; and she was all too happy to not only bring it, but pour it for them as well, all but draping herself over the demon's side while she filled his glass.

Aziraphale heard her whisper something that his rusty French couldn't fully decipher, but that was a more than obvious and rather explicit proposition, even with just the bits and pieces of it that he _could_ understand.

The angel refused to recognize the displeased fire suddenly blazing to life somewhere behind his chest as anything other than annoyance at having their conversation interrupted.

For his part, Crowley just gently picked the woman's hand off his chest from where it was trying to sneak under his collar, kissed her knuckles and offered a sentence that begun with a breathy "Mademoiselle," and ended with a whisper of "s'il vous plait"3, as the very air around them got denser and darker with an intangible and invisible fog, blurring reality around them in a way that did not interfere with free will, but that lowered inhibitions along with the bar for things that _‘wouldn’t be so bad, now, would they?’_

Whatever the demon had just promised her, it made the waitress step away with a blush and a giggle, and the thought ripped abruptly through Aziraphale's head that he did _not_ want to be there to see the demon make good on that particular 'temptation'.

He drank with more fervour that was probably appropriate for an angel, then made his polite excuses and sorted out preparations to return to London –to the bookshop he was opening– that very night.

It would be just the thing to put Crowley and his wiles out of his mind for a while.

3 If Aziraphale’s French had been any better, he would have been able to catch that Crowley was actually sending her away with a promise to return at a later moment that he had no intention to keep, but alas, spending most of his time in London made him rusty enough to miss the conversation almost entirely. And, well, maybe he was less focused on the words coming from the demon’s mouth than he was on his lips and the way they move, but no one would be able to prove that.


	4. 1941, the Blitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get a little bit of insight into how much exactly Crowley has been losing his mind over the angel for the last 6000 years.  
This made me cringe, laugh and "aww" all at once to write.  
Hopefully it does the same for you guys as well XD ♥

Their fight over Holy Water was one of the most dreadful things to ever shake up their Arrangement –Aziraphale was still afraid, too afraid, to actually call it friendship– and he and Crowley didn't see each other for over half a century.

The angel tried, oh, how he tried to put the demon out of his head, trying to bring truth in the horrible words they exchanged on that accursed day –_‘I don’t need you’- ‘and the feeling is mutual!’ – _but no amount of happy dancing in discreet gentlemen’s clubs could actually take Aziraphale’s mind completely off the gaping hole where a certain demonic presence should have lurked in his life.

It was made all the more difficult after he understood exactly what went on in these ‘discreet’ clubs— he received more curious propositions than he was comfortable with, and definitely more than he knew what to do with; and though he did his best to be kind to the young men possibly pulled in by his reassuring, angelic nature, Aziraphale would always find himself drawing _comparisons_, and the humans would inevitably fall short.4

He saw the demon again in the least likely of places, with a war on and Nazi guns pointed at his face for all his efforts to do something good.

"Sorry— consecrated ground— it's like— being at the beach in bare feet!"

Crowley's mere appearance in the church was almost enough to give the angel whiplash: why was he there? For Heaven's sake why would he endure _stepping on consecrated ground_ just to come mess with him, or with Nazis, or both? _How_ was he just hopping a silly dance from foot to foot and not curled up in a writhing, screaming agony?

"_Anthony_?" He heard himself ask when one of the men made a show of knowing the demon, and it warmed his heart to a degree that had no business existing when Crowley's immediate reaction was to ask after his opinion.

"You don't like it?" As if he would have changed it, right then and there, if the angel so much as said so.

"Uh, I didn't say that. I'll get used to it."

The demon's remark about there being a 'whole fontful' of Holy Water with no guards to protect it went ignored in the face of their far more urgent situation, as pointed out by Miss Rose –or rather Fräulein Greta, as the Nazi spy actually introduced her.

"The famous Mister Crowley..." she said, with a velvety quality to her voice that reminded Aziraphale of a certain waitress in Paris, "Such a pity you must _both_ die..."

Now, there was something to be said about near-death (or near-discorporation) situations, that could give one a sudden clarity and detachment from the situation itself, making a person able to come to various, different realizations in the span of a few seconds.

Crowley started telling the spies to basically run for their miserable mortal lives unless they fancied themselves to be blown up, but the angel's mind somehow zeroed in on the fact that that woman, holding them both at gunpoint and working for some of the most ruthless humans Aziraphale had the displeasure of witnessing on Earth, looked just about ready to jump out of her petticoats and have a proverbial _go_ at Crowley right then and there, on the church floors.

Not even the demon’s silly hopping around could deter the sheer amounts of Lust in her eyes, and the angel had the time to wonder what exactly the 'famous Mister Crowley' was famous for, other than possibly being some kind of dastardly spy causing all-around mischief.

"And _if_ in 30 seconds a bomb did land here, it would take a _real_ miracle for my friend and I to survive it."

_My friend._

"A— a real miracle?"

It was all he had the time to ask, to focus back on their very real concerns about possibly exploding rather than the natural way Crowley gave out the word 'friend', when Aziraphale would sometimes deny ever having met him before.

Then again, it wasn't like these people would live to tell the tale.

The blast passed in a blur, only the angel and demon left still standing; and as Aziraphale took in the rubble the notion passed through his head that even if Crowley's 'rescue' of him hadn't resulted in blowing a church to smithereens, the act of rescuing an angel could have been overlooked in favor of the sheer amount of sinful thoughts the demon instilled in that one woman alone, minutes before she died –and without even using his powers to do it, just a finely fitting suit and a tip of his hat in her direction.

Angels cannot really sense that type of thing, they are much more in tune with things like love and devotion, but Aziraphale didn't have to be able to sense it to see it –any idiot with eyes could, even a mortal one.

Which made it all the more confusing whenever Crowley ignored such blatantly low-hanging fruits, pun not intended.

"That was very kind of you." He said instead, pointedly not staring at the figure before him as Crowley cleaned his glasses and put them back on.

"Shut up!"

The demon's reaction to be called kind or anything that could signify something other than 'evil' was very predictable, and it brought a small smile to Aziraphale's face.

"Well... it was. No paperwork, for starters—" he was genuinely trying to thank the demon when the word paperwork brought a glaring realization to his attention:

"—oh, the books!" He exclaimed, cutting himself off, "I forgot all the books! Oh, they'll all be blown to pieces..."

In his bemoaning of his beloved literary artefacts, the angel didn't notice Crowley walking a few paces over the rubble to dislodge a very familiar bag from a very familiar and very dead hand, not until said bag was being gently shoved into his chest -their hands brushed; and both of them studiously ignored the tingle that followed.

"Little demonic miracle of my own..." Crowley said as he handed the books over, "Lift home?"

Strictly speaking, Aziraphale knew and was very aware that there was a limited amount of time between an offer to be driven home and the expectation of an answer, but his mind was too busy reeling with the fact that everything he had known about Crowley and everything he tried so hard to convince himself of was _wrong_.

For the demon to come looking for him after a falling out was normal –it wasn't the first time they had a disagreement and it definitely wouldn't be the last– for Crowley to come and 'save him' from the increasingly absurd situations Aziraphale got himself into was a given –not so much for a lack of being able to defend himself on the angel's part, but rather as a sort of unspoken game between them: Aziraphale would land himself into trouble so Crowley would come for him; and the demon always would, without fail.

This time should have been no different; and yet it gave the angel pause, making him see their back and forth in a new light: no matter how long they spent apart or what terms they left off on, Crowley would always _come back to him_.

Almost as if he was proving his loyalty to Aziraphale over and over— but that was a ridiculous notion, they weren't really friends, Crowley was his Adversary, not some sort of star-crossed lover on a test from Fate!

What the demon was actually showing was his commitment to their Arrangement, which he wouldn't be able to benefit from, if Heaven sent someone else to replace a discorporated Aziraphale.

...At least, that was what the angel had believed.

Then fire came crashing down around them, and Crowley thought to save his books.

Everything else the demon had done –interfering, rescuing him at the cost of stepping on consecrated ground, killing the Nazi spies himself so Aziraphale's hands would be clean– it all could have been explained away as part of the Arrangement or contingent to their situation as it was.

Everything... except saving the books.

Aziraphale would have been plenty grateful and 'owed him one' already as it were, there was no significant reason to save the books other than the angel's love for them and Crowley's knowledge of it.

A rush of warmth, much greater than the one Aziraphale felt upon the mere sight of his comely demon friend sauntering –well, hopping– in to save the day, overtook the angel.

If pressed for a description, Aziraphale would have probably been the one to come up with the expression 'rose tinted glasses', if it hadn't been invented already; because despite being slightly rumpled, impeccable suit now dirty with debris and his walk still slightly wobbly on what were likely very hurt feet, Crowley had never looked as magnificent as he appeared now, at least to the angel.

In the face of such a powerful cascade of sensations, it almost made sense that even a demon would ignore simple, basic Lust.

"Angel?" The call, however soft, startled Aziraphale out of his paranoid musings over whether Crowley was able to sense the awe and desire rolling off him in waves, "Look, it's the car that moves. Not the road. Shall we?"

The door of the passenger's seat was even being chivalrously held open for him.

"Ah. Yes, of course. Quite right."

For Heaven's sake, what was it about his interactions with the demon that always reduced him to a floundering, stammering mess?!

Steeling his resolve to be less of whatever that was, Aziraphale got into the car with the demon, only to discover first-hand that Crowley shouldn’t have been allowed to ever own a car, much less drive one.

It ended up, as it often did with the two of them, with an inordinate amount of alcohol and an angel and a demon getting egregiously sloshed in the cosy backroom of a bookshop.

“This calls for a toast!” Aziraphale rose is glass at one point, words slurring only slightly.

“Isn’t that more ‘f a breakfast thing?”

They were obviously thinking of two very different kinds of toast, and the angel could not help the fondness coursing through him at how utterly precious the demon looked, hat and sunglasses long forgotten somewhere, hair slightly mussed and his smooth, calculated persona nowhere to be seen in the faint lamplight.

Rather than explain in words that might fail him, Aziraphale rose his glass closer to Crowley’s own:

“To outsmarting Nazi spies!”

Crowley finally caught up to what type of toast was in order, and clinked glasses with the angel.

“To blowing up a church!”

Aziraphale was way too far past tipsy to take any offense to that (and it probably helped that clergy as an institution was already quite corrupt), choosing instead to clink glasses again with a giggle and keep the cheers going.

"To Anthony J. Crowley, dastardly spy and resident heartbreaker!"

Crowley met the toast with enthusiasm well before his drunken brain could catch up with the words in it and sputter in surprise:

"You— m— wait— heart–_what_?" He couldn't believe Aziraphale just said that.

_Aziraphale_ couldn't believe he _just_ _said that!_

Suddenly a lot less drunk, the angel balked.

"You mean it's not part of this— this image that you've adopted? Doing dangerous work and wooing people into temptation?"

People. Not exclusively men or women, regardless of how Crowley presented at a given moment. _People_.

The demon was far too much 'temptation' to be limited to one gender alone, and it baffled Aziraphale that he tended to ignore such a powerful weapon— so much so that, at times, the angel wondered whether the demon was as confident in his wiles as Aziraphale perceived him to be or if Crowley somehow doubted his strengths, behind his bravado.

Crowley's answer, sounding far less drunk than he had been moments prior, was both exactly what the angel expected and a complete shock.

"Nah. I mean yes, I have somewhat of a... reputation. But you know how the thing about temptations is. People talk. I let them believe a thing or two. They practically do my job for me. I don’t really get… _involved_, if I can avoid it. Too messy."

Before today, Crowley had never felt the need to explain himself in terms of his use–or lack thereof– of Lust whilst tempting; he didn't feel the need to explain himself in general, though Aziraphale had always been an exception, but this was _close_.

This was the closest they'd ever been to skirting around a dangerous topic –attraction and the taking advantage thereof. It teetered way to close to talking about this... _thing_, between them, something that was and wasn't at the same time: they weren't friends, of course, they were ‘hereditary enemies’ who just so happened to run into one another in time to save each other's life in a pinch because it was convenient, and the Arrangement was solely in place to make their work on Earth easier to bear.

They didn't think to protect objects the other cherished just to make them happy, they didn't particularly feel any one way about one-another and they most definitely _didn't_ pause to look up at each other with eyes full of trepidation and _intent_, under the soft light of an oil lamp.

Crowley was, all at once, stone-cold sober.

"I suppose I should go." He said, jostling Aziraphale from his thoughts enough to startle the angel out of what would have probably been their dumbest idea yet.

Crowley was aware of his own shortcomings, and he was also a coward, for lack of a better word: he wanted a lot of things, most of which he knew he couldn't have; but the one thing he didn't want was to chase this burning, unspoken _something_ and then have to endure seeing the angel regretting it, rejecting him, getting repulsed by the very notion that the demon, lowly beast he was, would take advantage of such a lapse in judgment— because that was what would happen, there was no doubt in the demon's mind.

"I'll be in touch soon." Not even Crowley believed those words as they came out of his mouth, but Aziraphale let him go with a smile that was trying very hard not to look disappointed and a 'mind how you go'.

They didn't meet again for almost 26 years, give or take a few months.

4 Aziraphale would admit to some light… experimentation, if pressed; for the sake of exploring the full spectrum of humanity and its emotions, but he never once fooled anyone into believing more was involved and he cut off the thing entirely the very moment he realized he could never care for those humans like they deserved to be cared for. Like he cared for… no one. _No one at all_, Aziraphale had _no such passions to speak of_.


	5. The years before Armageddon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the after-pocalypse, and then there's gonna be an epilogue of sorts for all the degenerates who are looking forward to sexytimes XD

They didn't talk about their exchange back in the 60s.

Crowley kept in touch to give Aziraphale a courteous heads-up about the M25, as per their Arrangement, which the angel was grateful for, since it served to quell his fear that the demon had done something stupid, after he’d gone against his better judgment and handed to Crowley the one thing that could actually destroy him completely.

They still didn't really meet again until the fateful day 'things' set into motion, as Gabriel pointedly put it while intruding in Aziraphale's sushi time.

Well. That was one dinner ruined.

One phone call and a drunken night of rambling later, plans were made to avert Apocalypse.5

Crowley's getup as a Nanny was a strange choice, but Aziraphale supposed he couldn’t be one to talk.

The angel was mostly just glad Crowley went with an old-fashioned Scottish Nanny rather than a more modern and, uh, looser look –regardless of what the demon said about his fashion choices, Aziraphale was very much aware of what happened around him and, as he'd stated multiple times, working in Soho gave him a practically bottomless well of knowledge on what went on in the world.

Especially in some very specific matters that, as an angel, he tried not to get too involved with –not to mention there were plenty of trashy little ‘romance’ books where a fine-looking young Nanny was never really just a nanny.

It was astounding how often those popped around and how many of them, no matter how often Aziraphale disposed of them (despite his inherent love for the written word, _some_ material indubitably belonged in a garbage bin).

As the Dowling family's gardener, Aziraphale instead went a bit heavy on the gentle and not-the-brightest image: people were likely to overlook such a person, and what looked like a bumbling simpleton would never rouse any suspicion or fear— which in turn meant that Aziraphale would be largely ignored and able to listen in on all the help's gossip and even more sensitive conversations between Mr Dowling himself and his security detail.

Granted, it also meant that sometimes Aziraphale would find himself within hearing range of things he really could have done _without _hearing, like when some of the boys from maintenance would speculate less than savoury things about 'Nanny Astoreth'.

"She always _looks_ so uptight, she's got to be a freak in the sack!" One chortled, as a crew of three got some tools out of the garden shed.

"I don't know, she certainly has the frigid bitch vibe..." Not any less rude, but that was what passed for casual conversation, apparently. Oh dear.

"Oh, come off it, don't you know the uptight ones are always the sluttiest when you get to it? There's a cougar under that skirt, I can tell you—"

Aziraphale stopped listening and made himself scarce, though not before a few quick miracles here and there: the first two men would suffer an equipment malfunction that will set their work back considerably enough that they'll be too busy to even think about talking trash about the resident Nanny, while the third one, the one who had the gall to joke about _'wiping the air of superiority off her face'_ would trip and hit himself with a mop handle where no sun would shine, and on top of the two weeks of medical leave the only thing he'd feel down there would be pain, for a good long while.

If Heaven asked him about those particular miracles, Aziraphale would just say he was protecting the household inhabitants from perverts and it would not be a lie.

The angel also understood, finally, why Crowley had gone for a blatantly middle-aged look rather than her usual ageless, disarmingly attractive self. If a stuffy old Nanny set tongues wagging in such a fashion, Aziraphale shuddered to think what those men would have felt entitled to say or do, confronted with the beauty Crowley was more than capable of being, all long limbs and loose copper curls.

And they weren't good shudders at all.

It was still nagging slightly at the back of his head when they went to report to their respective head offices, pretending like their simultaneous arrival was just coincidence and like they didn't talk, much less know each other.

They met again on the 19 bus, to discuss their progress –or the hopeful lack thereof, where Apocalypse was concerned.

The demon was about to get back up when Aziraphale decided he couldn't keep quiet:

"Crowley..." he called, "As your adversary I feel it's my duty to warn you... some of the men at the Dowling’s residence have been... talking."

Out of the corner of his eye, the angel saw a wicked grin break on Crowley's mouth.

"I know. Even just half of the nasty things they've been saying has been enough to fill my 'impure thoughts' quota for a while. Even Hastur was impressed."

The angel was disgusted, but not surprised.

"I'm afraid there's more and worse." Aziraphale gulped down an annoying little voice, who sounded too much like Gabriel, protesting that he shouldn't be worried about his enemy. "The guys from the maintenance team have been saying... stuff about, uh... accosting you. Wanting to do things to you."

There was a small bout of silence, and if the angel had chanced a look back he would have seen Crowley's eyebrows climb up in surprise.

"Worrying about the enemy, angel?" The teasing lilt to the question did very little to hide the hint of tension in the demon's voice, at least for Aziraphale, who had known him for just about six millennia.

"I'm just telling you what I heard. You do with that information what you will."

The angel muttered out the last words tersely, bitter with the realization that Crowley could do just that. He –she, actually, as Nanny Astoreth– could choose any way to take advantage of the knowledge of a few humans' base, vile desires—

—including _indulging them_, a traitorous portion of Aziraphale's mind supplied. He, as an angel, had taken for granted that all those horrible perversions would be unwelcome, both for the sake of keeping quiet undercover and for the crass and downright creepy way the men were speculating about Crowley's body and her supposed prowess in bed... but Crowley was a demon. She ate creepy for breakfast. It wasn't beyond imagining that she would give those men exactly what they wanted, right before damning them for eternity.

The bus lurched, and with it Aziraphale's corporeal heart.

"Well, that's my stop. Thanks for the heads up, angel. I'll get them to back off."

The angel's heart resumed beating at those words. He smiled a tiny relieved smile, following Crowley's fiery hair from his window until it disappeared from view as the bus started moving again. Then he promptly wiped the grin off his face: what exactly was he relieved about? That Crowley wasn't planning to seduce some random, brutish human?

Well, that was hardly any of his business now, was it?

Crowley could seduce whoever he or she damn well pleased –_should_, even, demonic wiles and all that.

There was no reason for the mere idea of it to send an ugly roiling feeling down the angel's very essence.

No reason whatsoever.

If Crowley wanted to be intimate with somebody else—

Aziraphale nearly struck himself.

Aside from the fact that those were thoughts he shouldn't have been having in the first place, much less about a demon... somebody _else_??? Their relationship was most definitely Not Like That.

Aziraphale himself had put a stop to that, decades ago, in a hushed whisper of "you go too fast for me, Crowley".

It was the most scared he had ever been, faced with the revelation of exactly what lengths he was willing to go to for Crowley and the already deep seated knowledge that the demon would do the same –had done so, over and over again.

Heaven and Hell would have had a field day, finding them like that, huddled inside a car like secret lovers, while Crowley offered to take him _'anywhere he wanted to go'_.

Not for the first time, a metaphorical black cloud had settled over the angel’s head: he could Fall for it, but that proverbial ship had already sailed for Crowley, he’d face annihilation, so Aziraphale had run away, much as it pained him to.

Blessedly, the remainder of their time at the Dowling residence passed without incident and, for some reason, no one would even dare to utter one wrong word about Nanny Astoreth from then on.

Aziraphale never got the details on what exactly Crowley had said or done to those horrible men, but he still was inordinately proud of his friend.

5 If interrogated about how and why he had ever agreed to such a scheme, Aziraphale _could_ have justified it as the demon using his expert wiles to tempt him into it –Crowley had, after all, known exactly which buttons to push and which questions to ask to get him on board with the idea, but while temptation _is_ generally giving someone the extra push to do something they already desired, Aziraphale _knew_ what Crowley pushing his powers out felt like, and the demon hadn’t attempted to do it to him. Ever. The thought made the angel happier than he probably should have been, thinking about a demon.


	6. The first day of the rest of their lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. After five times Crowley accidentally seduces people around him without really putting much thought into him, Aziraphale takes his corporation out for a spin and this is the result.  
And, in the meantime, Crowley finds out what he already knew all too well-- that his angel's face can be just as 'scandalous' as a demon's.
> 
> After this there would be the Epilogue where they switch back and finally get to have all the fun they didn't have for 6000 years -unless everyone is happy with this as the stopping pont.

The build up to Armageddon was a complete disaster.

Aziraphale was still frazzled, overcome with the weight of words spoken in haste and fear, not to mention all the chaos and destruction raining down around them.

_'Friends? We're not friends, we're an angel— and a demon, —I don't even like you!'_

_'I'm getting my stuff and I'm leaving! And when I'm off in the stars, I won't even think about you!!!'_

Getting discorporated, having to possess a human, coming face to face to the grim reality of a Heaven just as bloodthirsty as Hell, on top of it all, having his ideal of Heaven's inherent _goodness_ ripped out from under him...

It was a lot to take in.

Still... there were good parts.

_'Well, this is it. It was nice knowing you, angel.'_

_‘We can’t give up now.’_

Crowley _did_ come back for him.

Aziraphale knew he would.

They became the literal angel and demon on the shoulders of the little boy who would decide the fate of the Earth; and Adam rejected his satanic father, leaving a confused and disgruntled Mr. Young in the Devil's wake.

Only once they were finally relaxing on a bench, winding down with a bottle of wine that was probably stolen, Aziraphale finally let himself feel it—

All the suffering, everything they had endured, had been worth it to be finally there.

Together.

The bus headlights shone a strip of light at them as it drew closer.

"I suppose I should get it to drop me back at the bookshop."

Crowley turned to him, voice soft and careful like he had never heard before:

"It burned down... remember?" It almost sounded like it was more painful for the demon to say it than it was for Aziraphale to hear it. "You can stay at my place... if you like."

"I— I don't think my side would like that." The angel stammered, trying to quell the frantic rush of warmth coursing through him at the offer.

"You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do." Crowley had said similar words many times before, but they rang truer in the quiet aftermath of a battle that never was. "Like Agnes said, we're going to have to choose our faces carefully..."

And, after all, why not?

Heaven had already abandoned him, and the only thing Hell had had that could have swayed him had turned his back on it –much more readily and boldly than anything Aziraphale ever did.

It was about time the angel started giving back as much as he got.

He boarded the bus with Crowley.

The demon feigned nonchalance, looking out in the distance, but Aziraphale could see the tension coiled in his posture, the crease of worry on his brow that the sunglasses couldn't hide.

He reached out, clasping Crowley's hand with his.

It was like a weight lifting off from his heart when, after a moment of stunned surprise, Crowley's hand relaxed into his and twined their fingers together.

Words were not necessary, not after six thousand years of knowing each other— their eyes said what their mouths wouldn’t yet.

They got even more sloshed once they reached Crowley's flat.

For one, if they were walking towards their doom, might as well have a last hurrah of earthly delights; and for two, they always came up with the best plans when they were drunk off their ethereal and occult behinds.

"Y'know, angel—" a sound that might have been a hiccup broke the demon's sentence, "If I could take your place in Heaven, take whatever those wankers got in store for you, I would."

The unashamed sincerity in Crowley's voice made Aziraphale's corporeal heart flutter even more than it already was.

"So would I, my dear boy." Tongue loosened by the drink, he had no problem returning the sentiment, especially now that the proverbial cat was very much out of the bag with their respective head offices and they'd be coming anyway. "I would endure whatever punishment they had in store for you for the pass—possib— the chance to stick together."

"Don't say that so fast, angel..." Crowley muttered darkly around the rim of a scotch glass, "I betrayed 'em all and killed Ligur, they're prob'ly going to execute me, and make it all... poetic justice or whatever."

The words were slurred and stumbling slightly over each other, but they gave the angel such a sudden clarity that he jumped up from where he was –slumped down on the floor with his back against one of Crowley's plants; though why the demon had sat them both on the floor in the plant room rather than anywhere else in the flat was beyond Aziraphale.

"Crowley, _that's it_!" Ah, but onto more pressing matters. "You're a genius!"

" ‘Bout time someone recognised that." The demon in question muttered sluggishly, though he did pick himself up from the floor to follow the angel suit in sobering up. "So— wh- why am I a genius? In _this_ particular moment?"

"Poetic justice!" Aziraphale echoed, reaching out to grasp both of Crowley's hands –the scotch glass got miracled back in the cabinet it came from, empty and clean. "Both Heaven and Hell are _rife_ with it! Hell will want to kill you like you killed Ligur, while my lot..."

Sober, with his worry for the angel no longer sedated by the alcohol, Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale's hands.

"They'll want to watch you burn." It wasn't a question.

Agnes Nutter's prophecy suddenly made all the sense in the world—

_Choose your faces carefully – for soon enough you'll be playing with fire._

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

There was no mistaking the cheeky glint in the angel's eyes. He had an idea, and Crowley could very much guess what it was.

He felt himself smile despite the danger still looming over them.

"I think... that we should get behind closed doors and get some rest." He whispered, leaning slightly closer to breathe in Aziraphale's familiar scent, "And I think... that tomorrow morning, someone looking a lot like you and wearing your clothes will be going back to your bookshop to assess the damage."

"Meet back up in St. James' Park?"

They were close enough that Crowley's hair brushed Aziraphale's forehead as he nodded.

"Of course."

"My dear boy..." slowly, savouring the moment he could finally do this without fear, Aziraphale let one of his hands leave Crowley's to travel up his wrist, along his arm and over his shoulder, to rest behind his neck and gently pull in. "It will be alright—"

The angel's lips were met with a gentle press of Crowley's fingers.

"_Don't_." It wasn't a refusal. It was a plea. The angel's hurt didn't last long, not when Crowley elaborated further: "I can't... if I were to finally have this, only to have it ripped away from me tomorrow, I couldn't— I... wouldn't be able to bear it."

It stung, almost physically so, to be so close to expressing a love several millennia kept captive and still have to hold back; but Aziraphale could see where Crowley was coming from.

Quite ironic, really, for the demon to have been the one more sure of his feelings, for a long time at that; while him, a being made of love and to love, spent thousands of years in denial, brainwashed by all-consuming rules of _can't_ and _don't_, as well as sterile, archetypal notions of Good and Evil.

Crowley had, for Aziraphale's sake, no doubt, put a careful lid on his feelings after 1967; but the angel could still sense them every now and then –sometimes without even realizing what he was sensing right away.

_'Flashes of Love!'_

_'You're being ridiculous.'_

The memory of Crowley's flustered protest made Aziraphale smile; and despite the moment having been ruined by their impending doom, the angel felt ready.

"You're right." He whispered, lips brushing Crowley's fingers where they still rested. "Let's survive tomorrow first. We'll have an eternity to make up for lost time."

Crowley didn’t explain the statue, and Aziraphale didn’t ask about it –they did have a lot on their plate at the moment.

Mildly erotic symbolism aside, they retreated for the night and a plan was formed.

Heaven and Hell came for them in St. James' park, between a round of ice cream and a conversation trying to puzzle together the overnight return to 'normalcy' in the world.

Hell was damp, suffocating, clogged with dust in the air and grime over every surface; but Aziraphale was wearing Crowley's face, so he wouldn't flinch or recoil at the stench and the oppressive atmosphere.

He stood trial before Beelzebub and the remaining Dukes of Hell with the confident, cavalier swagger he always saw in Crowley –as if the demon couldn't care less whether the forces of universe worshipped the ground he walked on or demanded his destruction.

Aziraphale knew Crowley better than most, enough to tell that despite the facade the demon did care, about a great number of things, but this was Hell. 20% Lies, 30% Pure Evil and 50% bravado.

The appearance of the Archangel Michael gave him a minute pause, the remote fear, tucked in a hidden corner of his mind, that his angelic brethren would recognise him and see through the ruse, but the dirty tub was filled with Holy Water and Michael left none the wiser.

Never the most imaginative lot.

The gaggle of lower demons gathered behind the glass pane watched on, hungry for his blood and eager to hear him die screaming.

Beelzebub's grating voice droned a last question:

"Anything to say?"

_'You know what to do, do it with style.'_

Aziraphale shrugged one shoulder at Crowley's would-be executioners.

"Yes... this is a new jacket and I'd hate to ruin it, do you mind if I take it off?"

Normally, only demons could sense sin and/or sinful thoughts, but the angel didn't need demonic power to feel the hatred and bloodlust radiating from the other side of the glass pane... the Lords of Hell had wanted Crowley's execution to be as public and humiliating as possible. Aziraphale bit back a smirk at how much it was going to bite them in their disgusting rear-ends.

He undressed as theatrically and shamelessly as wearing Crowley's appearance made him dare to; and he was not surprised to feel the tiniest change in the frenzied energy behind the glass –oh the hatred was still roaring strong, but the shouts and whistles clearly implied that some of the lower demons would have loved to 'teach Crowley a lesson' in a very up close and personal way.

_‘Tough luck, you nasty little critters. You can look but you _definitely_ cannot touch.’_

Gosh, how was Crowley’s ego not bigger than Satan’s wingspan? This was way too easy.

Stripped down to shorts, socks and tank top, he relaxed into the invigorating touch of Holy Water, splashed about a small bit, and then decided to get playful –and maybe hammer down exactly how dangerous it would be to mess with Anthony J. Crowley: he started splashing water at the glass every now and then, revelling in the ominous sizzle of it against the dingy walls and making the demonic mob jump back in renewed fear.

_'Good. Tremble before him.'_

"I don't suppose anywhere in the Nine Circles of Hell there's such a thing as a rubber duck?" He asked, raising his head to meet the flabbergasted faces of Hell's high command. "No?"

Aziraphale watched with immense satisfaction as Hastur tried to still push for an attack and Beelzebub shot him down instead, having the room evacuated before the demon mob decided that maybe it was better to have a demon immune to Holy Water on their side and started rioting against their own.

“So, you’re probably thinking _if he can do this, I wonder what else he could do?_” He didn’t even have to voluntarily puff up his chest for that, “Mm, very, _very_ soon… you’re all gonna get the chance to find out.”

Just when he thought it couldn't possibly get better, Michael came back with the empty pitcher.

"Michael! Duuude, do us a quick miracle, will you? I need a bath towel."

Aziraphale would forever cherish the moment he was able to get the Archangel Michael miracle him a towel out of sheer terror.

"I think... it will be better for everyone, if I were to be left alone in the future... don't you?"

He got to saunter out of Hell after four sets of cowering nods and the legions of the damned giving him a wide berth.

Making for St. James' Park again, he wondered how Crowley was faring.

"You could have just sent a message. A kidnapping, in broad daylight?" As he was wearing Aziraphale's face, Crowley stopped there –it wouldn't have been very angelic to add _'and not even the guts to do it yourself, you spineless tosser'_, but the sentiment was very much there.

Heaven was just as antiseptic and cold as he remembered, too concerned with being Right than it was with being Good; and honestly Crowley was starting to think that the only reason these spiteful, vengeful gits hadn't taken a sulphur dive was because God either didn't deem them even worth the recognition that being cast out requires, or had more bloody _Ineffable Plans_ that needed the current status quo maintained.

The imp who came to light the Hellfire circle wasn't exactly a surprise, but it still made his blood boil that these holier-than-thou, feathered asshats wouldn't even give Aziraphale the _pretence_ of a trial.

As the angel, he tried to argue in favor of peace and forgiveness, and the words _'Greater Good'_ actually left his mouth.

"Don't talk to me about the Greater Good, sunshine, I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel."

Crowley had to bite his tongue to avoid mentioning that he was probably the worst of the lot, tied for _'ass-holiest’_ title with Sandalphon; and that there was a greater Good in the tip of Aziraphale’s pinky finger than in the three of them combined.

He was untied and made to stand –they wanted him to walk into his own destruction.

One last time, he attempted to argue: he owed it to Aziraphale, to do what _he_ would do, try to prevent conflict and bloodshed, to avoid anyone getting hurt unless it was absolutely necessary.

“We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Well, _for Heaven’s sake_…” Gabriel mocked, really testing the limits of Crowley’s patience, “We’re meant to make an example out of traitors. So… into the flame.”

Crowley schooled his expression into a distant but gentle smile.

"Well... lovely knowing you all." He said, knowing his angel's last words would always, always be of acceptance and compassion, "May we meet on a better occasion."

"Shut your stupid mouth and die already."

Gabriel's fake little grin made Crowley want to jump at him and tear him apart barehanded, but he refrained, again, to keep up the ruse.

He did, however, harden his gaze at them all at the last moment, just before stepping into the circle, focusing on Gabriel in particular and conveying one single message:

_'I'm going to enjoy this, bitch.'_

The warm woosh of Hellfire all over him was just what he needed after all the energy he expended keeping the Bentley running first and stopping time after; and Crowley felt a pleasured little moan rise up in his throat. He decided not to fight it –Aziraphale was a right little hedonist when he wanted to be, some of the noises he made while eating could give Incubi a run for their money.

Plus, he was already terrorizing Heaven's highest agents, might as well scandalize them too. He let the moan rumble behind closed lips and then turned it into a satisfied exhale, letting the feeling of the fire lapping at his sore essence soothe him as he opened his eyes again and looked at the Archangels.

Oh, their faces were priceless.

But there was one more lesson to hammer down –do _not_ fucking mess with the Principality Aziraphale of the Eastern _fucking_ Gate– so he spat a spray of Hellfire in Gabriel's direction. The purple eyed bastard jumped back with a gasp like the useless coward he was, taking the other two by hand with him just in case.

Crowley had to focus very hard to keep the cackle he wanted to let out to a small chuckle instead.

The imp returned, presumably to collect the remains of the circle, and promptly froze with a shriek.

Crowley stepped out of the fire, and it sputtered and went out, after infusing the demon with all the energy that would have instead killed the angel.

"Well. That was quite the lightshow." He said, making a point of adjusting his bowtie as if that was the most pressing matter at hand. "If there are no further clever ways to attempt my destruction and _fail_, I'd like to be on my way."

Sandalphon and Uriel said nothing, visibly terrified, while Gabriel just gulped. 6

Crowley smiled the most beatific and 'innocent' smile Aziraphale's face was capable of and then, just because he knew the angel would secretly delight in it, he carried on mercilessly:

"Since all this proved to be rather fruitless, how about I go along minding my own business, and everyone else keeps their nose out of it?" He asked, looking between all his spectators in a wide arc. "Hm?"

The angels nodded in varying stages of shocked and frantically fearful, though Gabriel was doing his best to hide it; and the imp was literally shaking like a pitiful demonic leaf, in fear, awe and... something else entirely.

Crowley should have known, really. It was getting way too hard to hold in the laughter, so he decided to get on with it.

"Jolly good then." A bit of mischief broke through his face, but didn't feel out of place as he straightened his back and walked out on Heaven throwing a wink back at those who would have had him killed: "It's _tickety-boo_."

It still took until they saw each other again, finally free of their former 'sides', and switched back, before they actually let themselves feel at peace.

But once they were sitting at a table at the Ritz and cheering "To the world", things finally felt _right_.

6 As an Archangel, Gabriel did not need to breathe or salivate any more than a regular angel did, which was really not at all, so the whole ‘gulping’ thing was indubitably out of fear; and Crowley hoped the rest of the Heavenly Host would never let the wanker live it down –the only reason Gabriel didn’t piss himself was probably because he never cared to learn how that particular bodily function worked and thus was incapable of recreating it, but oh, Crowley would treasure the memory of _that_ stupid face forever.


	7. Epilogues and Explanations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get the truth out of Crowley's past antics and Aziraphale gets to find out exactly how long his demon has pined for him...  
but not before a whole lot of smooching -what _should_ have been smut instead got run over by so many _feelings_ that it barely qualifies.  
Goddamn these two and their pining.  
Still. Leaving the rating as M, since they do dance dirty, regardless of how vague it turned out.  
Also, fair warning: Aziraphale tops in this. Because he's just enough of a bastard for it. XD

Lunch bled away into an afternoon walk, which turned into dinner at the sushi place Aziraphale liked, lasting well into the angel and the demon being the only remaining customers in the establishment.

"Oh dear." Aziraphale commented at one point, "We should be on our way, let the poor man close up shop."

"Mm." Crowley mumbled and made a few other odd sounds –it was adorably charming whenever he would sputter himself into gibberish. "Yeah, maybe. Lift home?"

_Lift home._

Oh, what fond memories those two words brought. The very day he realized what his feelings for the demon were, and how loved he had been in return all along.

Hopefully this time it would mean home for the both of them.

There was an attempt to put some music on for the car ride when Aziraphale found a CD labelled _'Mozart'_, but Freddie Mercury's voice unerringly came out of the speakers and Crowley violently shut the radio off when _"Good old-fashioned lover boy" _started playing.

Aziraphale had never seen a car with a sense of humor, but then again the Bentley had never been an ordinary car –having a less-than-ordinary owner for nearly a century now, it was probably inevitable that _some_ kind of occult qualities made it into the car as well. That it decided to use such qualities to mess with Crowley only made Aziraphale appreciate its smarts and bravery.

They reached the bookshop within a timeframe that did not account for speed limits or traffic lights; and yet Crowley was nothing if not gentle as he parked the car and turned off the engine.

"Well. This is it."

The nervousness coming from the demon mirrored Aziraphale's own, but even that moment of trepidation felt so, so good, if only for the promise of what was to come.

"Indeed it is."

Crowley licked his lips, and the angel didn't have to pretend not to be tracking the motion with his eyes.

"Angel, I..."

"Yes? My dear?"

Aziraphale was just about ready to burst at the seams, but he knew the expression on the demon's face, even with the sunglasses: Crowley needed to say it.

Always so brave, reckless, beautiful demon he was.

"I don't want tonight to be over."

The smile breaking on Aziraphale's face could have lit up a thousand suns.

"I should think not. There's still so much to say... and do, my dear boy."

"I— you— m— angel?!"

Said angel took his demon by the hand and lead the both of them out of the car –Crowley stumbled through the seats in a daze, unwilling to break contact now that it had been made.

"Would you like to come inside?" Aziraphale asked, "I have a whole new wine selection to look over."

Alcohol was the furthest thing from both of their minds and they knew it.

They held hands through the few steps that brought them inside the bookshop, dim lights coming to life just as they stepped through the threshold; and for one moment all either of them could do was just… stand there, dumbstruck that this was real. That they could have this.

The silence and stillness lasted for all of five seconds, up to the moment when both angel and demon found the courage to meet each other’s eyes.

If asked, both would be hard-pressed to recall who moved first, but a blink later Crowley’s sunglasses were snatched away and thrown to the floor, there were fingers carding through Aziraphale’s hair and hands pressing forcefully behind Crowley’s shoulder-blades, trapping him in an embrace he had no intention of escaping any time soon.

As far as first kisses went, it was nothing to write sonnets about –clumsy, overeager and just this side of desperate– but that was to be expected, considering it was a kiss trying to convey six thousand years of missed opportunities and pent up emotions.

It was nothing like Aziraphale imagined—and the angel had imagined this a lot, especially in the last couple centuries, when evolving sexualities and atypical acquaintances gave him quite the vivid idea of what he could have had if he just reached for it. Granted, in his mind Crowley was every bit the suave, confident visage ready to seduce him with his wiles and debauch him like no angel had been before… but the reality was not any less enchanting and the contrary, the fact that the demon was reduced to as much of a mess as _he_ felt and was just as clumsy, if not more, was more intoxicating than any alcohol humanity could come up with; and Aziraphale felt a surge of energy course through him when Crowley let out a hum he didn’t hesitate to swallow with his own mouth.

It turned into a gasp when the angel raked his hands possessively down Crowley’s sides, nails-first, all the way down until he could cup them around tight buttocks and just _heave up_.

Crowley instinctively hooked his legs around Aziraphale’s waist at the feeling of being _deadlifted by the ass_, briefly breaking their kiss to tighten his grip on the angel’s shoulders in surprise, both at the initiative and the other’s strength— with the unassuming way he carried himself and acted, it was easy to forget that Aziraphale was issued a flaming sword for a reason, and had abandoned an entire platoon that would have been _at his command_, to come back to Earth and find him.

“Angel—”

Aziraphale paused his power-walk halfway to the backroom and searched the demon's gaze.

"Too fast?"

The irony of the question coming from the angel did not escape either of them; and the amused glance they exchanged took some of the edge off the urgency they had been moving with –they had, after all, all the time in the world now.

Crowley held tighter onto his angel.

"No, not at all, it's just—" he started and stopped his answer, struggling to find the right words. "This... this isn't how it was supposed to go."

The way the last part was just barely mumbled out, as if the demon was embarrassed about not taking control or not living up to whatever stupid preconceptions there were to be made about demons and seduction, made Aziraphale feel like his heart was trying to soar out of his chest— Crowley wanted to make _an impression_ and was worried about not measuring up to Aziraphale's own... impetus.

How… utterly… _precious_.

"Oh?" He asked, feigning innocence in a way he knew wouldn't fool Crowley, "And have you thought about how _this_ was supposed to go _in great detail_, then, my dear?"

A small trail of kisses with the barest hint of teeth tracing Crowley's jawline denied the possibility of an answer.

"Angel—" slightly jostled when Aziraphale resumed walking towards the stairs, Crowley yelped and held on tighter, accidentally making it known that both of them had indeed made an Effort and that it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore. "I— you— m— we..."

Impossibly charmed by the _confused demon noises _and all the more aroused at being the one causing them, Aziraphale finally set loose centuries of repressed feelings and desires left unsaid:

"Have you thought to_ wine and dine _me, perhaps?" He asked, "We've done that plenty, and there's a _clever little saying_ nowadays about what comes after that..."

"Shit, Aziraphale—"

"Have you thought about offering me a _lift home_?" As he progressed up the stairs and to his flat, still with an armful of flustered demon, the angel put particular emphasis on the last two words. "Or you'd maybe take me to your place and have your wicked, _demonic_ way with me?"

"I didn't— I wouldn't—"

Crowley was losing his mind.

This was beyond his wildest imagination –and he had plenty to spare. Some part of him felt he was being a shit demon and an even worse lover, reduced to a stammering, blushing mess as Aziraphale quite literally swept him off his feet, when it really should have been the opposite from a theoretical point of view.

But the angel seemed not to mind, he seemed to be loving it, actually; and Crowley felt the grin against his body where Aziraphale started mouthing a line down his neck.

"Oh, I know you wouldn't, my dear." He whispered to the demon's rapidly heating skin, "Always so patient with me... but I've kept you waiting for so long and have been denying myself even longer. If it's all the same to you, I'm done with _patience_."

They had reached the flat and then some, doors opening in Aziraphale's wake with barely a thought –'how's _that_ for frivolous miracles, you pompous bastards?'– he privately challenged any powers that be to try and come 'reprimand' him; and he threw the door to his bedroom open with a glance, fully intent on crossing the distance to his bed in three quick strides and throw Crowley down on it.

"Tell me how you want to do this." The angel breathed against the demon's clavicles once they both landed on the mattress, drinking in the sight, the scent, the touch of the body under him, sinful and heavenly at once, relishing in every groan and sound of pleasure coming from Crowley's mouth as well.

Only one sense was missing to fully enjoy the experience that was to behold Crowley in all his glory— and Aziraphale had never been one for self-restraint, so he parted his lips to poke out his tongue and lick at the perfect skin he found.

No luxury restaurant menu or rare treat could ever hope to compare.

"Fuck, angel..." Crowley was a mess, putty in his hands, miles away from the confident smartass with a devil-may-care attitude; and Aziraphale loved him all the more for it. This was genuine— and so absolutely _them_ that they wouldn't have it any other way.

"Any way you want me, angel... anything— Aziraphale— I— I'm yours."

In a different setting, the angel would have reminded Crowley that he was his own entity, first and foremost; but in the heat of the moment, lost in their shared passion, Aziraphale felt just elation and possessiveness rise up within him and let his hands roam up his demon's torso until they rested at his shirt collar.

"Then I'm the richest being in the entire universe." His fingers curled to grip the hems of cloth. "May I?"

"Yes." The answer came in a sigh before the questioning lilt in the angel's voice even finished sounding out.

The ripping sound of Crowley's top being literally torn open was only topped by the demon's breathy chuckle as he arched up in pleasure at Aziraphale's enthusiasm.

There was something insanely sexy in the idea of Aziraphale –soft-looking, soft-spoken, sweet Aziraphale– actually getting rough under the sheets; and he demon was powerless to stop it, mostly because he _did not want to._

In fact, he was hungry for more.

"Look at me." He heard, just loud enough to be above a breath.

_Just enough of a bastard_, indeed.

Crowley opened his eyes –which he didn't remember closing– and was rewarded with the veritable vision that was the angel above him, hands either side of his body still holding bits of the ruined black shirt and hips still nestled comfortably between his legs.

The demon could not resist licking his lips at the sight; and he could see Aziraphale's eyes tracking the movement of his tongue hungrily with his eyes, almost as if he was jealous that it was Crowley's lips that were being touched by his tongue, when it could be dragging languidly along the angel's own instead.

Crowley had never felt as loved and desired as he was feeling underneath that stare.

Idolatry was a sin, but he was already damned anyway; he had absolutely no problem worshipping Aziraphale with all his heart, his mind and, more pressingly, his body.

Emboldened by the angel's own vigour, the demon ran his fingers through each button of Aziraphale's waistcoat, undoing it carefully but swiftly before grabbing two fistfuls of the button-up underneath and tugging it none-too-gently out of the suit's trousers.

"Crowley—"

"You have no fucking idea what you do to me." It felt so good to finally be able to say it out loud, without fearing divine (or satanic) punishment or a rejection made of excuses, to serve as a smokescreen masking a love in the works from six thousand years –it felt so good that Crowley could have cried.

Maybe he _was_ crying— but everything was just so much he couldn't rightly tell.

"Then tell me."

Aziraphale rasped the words out in a gasp, while the demon slipped both hands under his shirt and began exploring the skin he had been forbidden to touch for so long.

The angel would be a liar if he said he wasn't at least a little insecure about his body. He liked it, he was used to it just the way it was, but Gabriel's snide little comments about needing to 'lose the gut' had stung and lingered a little; so it was more than a little flattering to see Crowley –beautiful, ever-changing Crowley– work himself up into a frenzy with just a few caresses under Aziraphale's collar.

And oh, Crowley _did_ tell.

"You drive me insane." He groaned, leaning up to mouth it in a kiss against the angel's temple, “With your stupid, bottomless blue eyes, and your lips and _everything surrounding them_; and _fuck_ I have spent centuries dreaming about that angelic mouth of yours getting up to _filthy_ business all over my body, I'm so starved for your touch I could spend eternity mapping out your body with my tongue, _from the bottom up_."

Oh, how Aziraphale had longed to hear something along those lines from Crowley— to be fair, he never allowed his mind to wander too much in detail, but to know that Crowley not only loved him back just as fervently, but desired him as well, made the angel feel more loved and more worthy than the entire Heavenly Host ever had made him feel in six thousand years.

And if that was blasphemy, well, he won't notice the divine wrath striking him down if Crowley's clever hands keep getting busy like that within his trousers.

"So I'll tell you again, angel..." the demon carries on, "Any way you want this, that's how I want it too, I want all of it and I swear to all the powers Above and Below, if you don't miracle your clothes off now I will rip them off your person with my teeth."

Aziraphale knew Crowley wasn't one to make idle threats, he much preferred the look of surprise and horror on the face of anyone who underestimated him when they’d reap the consequences... so when the demon said he would remove clothing off his person via biting it off, the angel knew Crowley _meant it_.

And the mere thought was more exciting than words could express— one snap of fingers later, they were both skin on skin.

"_Angel_—"

"_Much_ better."

They groaned at the same time as their bodies came into contact. Finally free of the constraint of clothing, Crowley grinned up at his angel and let one hand slide back up the planes of Aziraphale's torso, enjoying the soft plumpness of it and the firmness hiding underneath.

The demon loved it, all of him, inside and out; and as he got a good grip on the angel's shoulders he brushed his lips against Aziraphale's cheek to speak against his skin:

"Your turn, angel." His voice broke slightly as he felt Aziraphale's hands begin to explore him anew and travelling steadily lower, "How much have you thought about this happening? How many nights have you spent awake and wondering what manner of nefarious things I could do to you? Or let you do to me?"

With the kind of low growl that would remind anyone why exactly he was issue a flaming sword from the Almighty herself, Aziraphale finally stopped hesitating and reached a hand between Crowley's thighs, leaning down to place a kiss on the demon's lips meant to both be sweet and stake a claim at the same time.

"Too _goddamn_ long."

Crowley arched into the touch, parting his knees further to make room for more of the angel when he felt Aziraphale's considerable Effort press up against him in a way that made them both gasp.

He barely needed to spare a thought to be ready for it.

"Go on, then. Show me."

Aziraphale was surprisingly tender, both in taking Crowley in hand and lining himself up, but the demon could feel the mischief in his voice.

"Careful what you wish for."

It was, in hindsight, probably rather telling that their everyday back and forth spilled over in bed, too. They had basically been flirting for centuries and it took exactly that long for them to realize it.

"Why?" Crowley tried to be cheeky, but his question stuttered in places with moans the more confidence Aziraphale got in working him up and down. "Will I— _ah_— will I finally get it?"

"And then some, my love."

They met with another kiss as the angel pushed himself in, letting their bodies join in that very primal and visceral way neither of them thought they would be afforded the luxury to.

If he wasn't sure before, Crowley could definitely feel a few tears escaping— after centuries of being kept at arm's length, to finally be able to feel Aziraphale inside him, around him, everywhere, filling him with so much love and in so many ways that the demon thought he would burst at the seams, unable to contain it all... he hadn't felt this good since before the Fall.

Oh who was he kidding, he hadn't felt this good ever. Heaven had always been ill-fitting on him.

Aziraphale wore it much better, but it still wasn't an outfit worth the angel's beautiful, all-encompassing, loving nature.

Distantly, in the back of his head, the demon spared a thought about this being the worst job he'd ever done in terms of seduction: getting wooed by words _he_ should have been saying, getting swept off his feet like a fair maiden or an inexperienced boy, and now bawling his eyes out, reduced to a mess of writhing limbs and pleasured sounds as Aziraphale took control and set the pace...

Then again, he didn't need to work his way into Aziraphale's heart or his bed –the angel was giving both freely.

Because they loved each other. Had loved each other for the better part of 6000 years.

Neither of them lasted very long. Contrary to what one would have expected looking at him, Aziraphale fucked hard, fast and desperate. It might have been the long wait, the pent up feelings and the urge to make up for lost time, but he brought Crowley to the edge and over with eager thrusts and whispered words of love, feeling and seeing the demon reach his climax with his back arching clean off the bed as his control shattered as black wings burst forth behind him, knocking things all over the place when he came apart crying the angel's name.

Aziraphale wasn't too far behind after that, his own wings breaking loose in reaction to seeing Crowley's and his orgasm almost taking his senses away; nothing mattered except _'Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, oh, my love'_.

It took quite a bit of shuffling around to accommodate their wings, even folded up, but they managed to settle together while still leaving them out to breathe a bit, with Crowley tucked snugly at the angel's side after Aziraphale had kissed the tear tracks away from his face.

"Oh, dear..." the angel mumbled out eventually, in awe at being able to stroke Crowley's hair and enjoy the feeling, without fear of Heavenly or Hellish repercussion.

The demon leaned into the touch with closed eyes.

"Yeah. My thoughts exactly."

He snuggled up even closer to Aziraphale, looking up at him with the same barely-there smile he had when they toasted _'to the world'_.

God above, how Aziraphale loved him.

"So, um..." it was ridiculous to get bashful now, but the angel couldn't help himself. "How do I... stack up?"

Crowley didn't need to blink, but he did, just to convey his confusion. Either that or he wanted Aziraphale to say it. Anyone's guess.

"Against your past... temptations, I mean. You're clearly very— I mean the way you were— surely there have been hundreds and I just wondered if— if I was up to, uh, standard— oh, nevermind, I'm being silly—"

He got cut off by Crowley gently cupping his face with both hands so he would look at him in the eyes.

"Oh, angel..." he urged, with a gentleness Aziraphale only heard the demon use very recently, when he offered refuge and companionship on a dimly lit bus stop bench. "Don't say that. I mean yes, it's silly that you think you have to ask, but honestly... nothing else could ever compare. It's always been you, Aziraphale."

"Dearest..."

The rush of fondness accompanying the word only redoubled when the angel saw the tables turn as Crowley, funnily enough, let his hands rest on Aziraphale's chest and turned a slightly bashful gaze on him.

" 'Sides... I might have done this less than you'd think."

"Really?" And it wasn't possessiveness, or happiness at the thought that not many people got the privilege of experiencing Crowley in such a deep intimate way, or rather part of it was; but most of it was genuine surprise. "Looking like you look?"

The demon made a sound that sounded suspiciously like an aborted _'I don't look like all that'_, but Aziraphale didn't have the time to dwell on it:

"Now, don't be shallow, angel." Crowley teased with a quick kiss, "Hastur looks bloody hideous and he's an expert on Lust. Can put dirt into people's mind like nobody's business. Super easy to tempt humans into each other, much easier than getting... involved."

The angel took the time to process it.

"But— surely it would have been… an asset..."

"Oh, Hell _wanted me to_, from time to time. Weaselled out of as many as I could though. Humans don't really... _do it_, for me."

Aziraphale wanted to laugh at himself –he wasn't deluded enough to think he had been Crowley's first, but he was selfishly ecstatic to be, by _his_ demon's own admission, the only one that mattered.

"So that time back in Rome, when we went for oysters..."

"It was about politics." Crowley recalled with a shake of his head. "And a complete bust, by the way, people kept looking at me weird—"

"They were _lusting after you_! You looked like you had dressed in the dark and stumbling out of someone's bed!"

The small bubble of laughter breaking the angel's words was obvious to them both.

"Well that wasn't my bloody fault! Stupid togas were a pain to figure out."

There went the pout the demon would vehemently deny being capable of. Aziraphale needed more.

"Oh, my dear... what about the sixteen hundreds?"

He got a shrug from that. "Eh. Fooled around once or twice. Didn't enjoy it much."

The angel's disbelief grew.

"What about the waitress in Paris?"

"Angel—"

"Or the Nazi lady during the blitz? Surely you remember _her_, she was fawning so much over you one would think she got pregnant the instant you tipped your hat at her!"

It was altogether too much. Crowley broke in peals of laughter.

"Never change, angel." Truth to be told, he didn't put that much stock into his own seductiveness as it was, chalking up the easy interest from humans as a perk of his demonic powers, but his angel had noticed... and God—Someone help him, Aziraphale had been jealous. "How did you even notice those things? And how did I not notice you noticing?"

"I notice everything about you, my dear boy."

Crowley was a piss poor excuse for a demon, liking this happy, cosy sort of feeling, but _sod it all_ he was far past caring.

"Yeah, um. To answer your question, the waitress got tempted into taking one of her coworkers to her room with the promise I'd 'join them'..." which he never did, Aziraphale could infer from his tone, "And as for the blitz lady, well... there was only one beauty I had eyes for in that church."

"Oh, Crowley..." if Aziraphale could stay like this for eternity, naked and relaxing in a comfy bed with the one true love of his existence, talking and indulging in soft kisses, he would be fine with it. And in the back of his mind, the knowledge that he very well could have done just that made him smile and kiss his demon once more. "I hope you know that I would not love you any less, even if you'd taken to bed every being to ever lay eyes on you in the last 6000 years up to now."

Breath Crowley didn't need left him in a woosh, as he let himself feel the sheer amounts of pure, unadulterated Love he could read in Aziraphale's eyes, all but burning into him.

"Angel..."

"That being said, I hope you also know that any such endeavours end _now_." He said playfully, with just a hint of a promise of angelic fury behind it, "I am a hedonist after all, and _I don't like to share_."

And oh. Wasn't that a thought? Him, a lowly demon? Loved and cherished above all things, so much so that other beings were disallowed to touch him? Crowley could tell Aziraphale meant it, and the idea of the angel staking such a claim was more enticing than he'd care to admit in any other setting.

As it was, he just grinned.

"I, uh— seem to recall already saying I'm yours. You know, while you were making me lose my goddamn mind."

No verbal response was offered, but Aziraphale smiled at him in return and just barely licked his lips, as if faced with a particularly tasty treat, only infinitely happier –which was a feat in and of itself.

"What about you, angel?" The demon blurts out in the silence.

"_What_ about me?"

It was Crowley's turn to look incredulous.

"Come on, angel, you can tell me. You definitely knew what you were doing, just now."

Those sweet rosy cheeks had no business being so shy after the positively decadent way Aziraphale had fucked him into the mattress, but his angel was a beautiful contradiction like that.

“I might have... tried out a few things once or twice in the 1800s. It was a lonely time for me, but uh... physicality never really... _'did it'_ for me, either. Unless it was you.”

Crowley's train of thought about the idea of Aziraphale being lonely without him as he slept for the better part of a century, and possibly _fucking the loneliness away_, or trying to, came to a screeching halt.

"…What?"

"My dear boy..." Aziraphale said, like a teacher speaking to a very slow pupil, thought that might have been inappropriate since they were still lying together in bed and very much naked –not that the angel cared. "I have desired to tear off your clothing and taste your skin since the Flood."

It was a confession with no shame or reservation, and Crowley was floored.

"What?"

"It still took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize it was Love, at about the time of the blitz, but it's true. I have always, someway, yearned for you."

In the past, Crowley had doubted his own capabilities to feel love, what with being a demon and such, but now he knew better –it was almost pouring out of his corporeal form.

"Well. You, uh... you're not alone in that."

Aziraphale's eyes positively twinkled at the demon's admission.

"Oh, really?"

Such a familiar expression— something that evoked memories of _'alright, I'll do that one, my treat'_ and already back then being irrevocably, unerringly whipped for this angel.

Crowley could only nod and hope he wasn't blushing too hard.

"I— um, you know, I— since Eden."

"What about Eden?"

Someone looking might have thought Aziraphale was just that oblivious, yet Crowley narrowed his eyes at the angel, suspecting that he was just trying to make him say it.

Again, it was anyone's guess.

"That's how long I've loved you. Or felt some kind of something for you." It felt embarrassing to let himself be so vulnerable, but for such an open look of joy and affection on Aziraphale's face, he would do it a million times over, and even go further: "You gave away your sword, you confided in me, a demon, that you'd done it, and then sheltered me from the rain. And that was that. I was done for. Arse over teakettle, _stupid_ in love."

"Oh Crowley—"

"I mean it, angel, you ruined me." The demon assured, staring to poke, tickle and pinch at various places all over Aziraphale's sides to make him flinch and giggle, "You ruined me all those millennia ago with your angelic beauty and your kindness, and now you've ruined me twice over into bed."

After a bit of playful tussling around, Aziraphale managed to catch both of the demon's wrists in his hands –not missing the small hitch in Crowley's breath, they will have to explore that particular fantasy, at some point.

"Well, my dear, consider the feeling very much mutual. I have been ruined for you for a long time, and wouldn't have it any other way."

They kissed again, giddy at the realization that they could, that the sky didn't suddenly split open in punishment, that they were on Their Own Side for good and nothing would ever separate them again.

"Let's get you dressed, angel." Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale's lips, "I do believe you have time for a quick breakfast at that little patisserie you like, before opening up shop... that is, if I can tempt you?"

The angel chuckled and chased Crowley's lips to bite slightly at them.

He could get used to this –and he had eternity to do so.

"When you put it like that... temptation accomplished, my dear."


End file.
